by Kihn, Greg;
George crept along the dirty carpet of the second-floor landing. The lab boys hadn’t gone this far out the door, and George wanted to see what he could find out past the threshold.
His eyes locked on something gray and small and easy to miss on the filthy floor. He picked it up and held it to the light. It was a portion of a ticket stub. It had been ripped in half, then ripped a second time. He put the stub in an envelope and put it in his pocket.
“What’s that?” Panelli asked.
“Nothin’,” he replied.
They went back to the room.
George sat in the chair that Dolly had sat in after she died and looked out at the rest of the small room. It was quiet now. Outside the window the dirty wind swirled grit against the glass.
“The lab boys didn’t move any furniture, so it’s still the way the killer left it.”
Across the room, another chair faced George. It was the only other piece of furniture in the room, except for the bed and a nightstand.
“I wonder what she faced,” George muttered. “I wonder what her corpse witnessed.”
“Well, the killer probably sat in front of her on this chair,” Panelli replied, sitting down to face George. “Feels a little creepy, sitting in the same place the killer sat.”
George nodded. “Maybe he sat there and did something in front of the dead girl. Maybe that’s why he killed her. He killed her so he could sit her down and do something in front of her. But what?”
“I still say he jerked off.”
“No semen. I don’t think that’s it.”
“Maybe he used a rubber and took it with him.”
“That’s possible.”
George sat there waiting for his mind to answer. That was the way he got most of his insights. He just sat there until a light-bulb lit up and an answer popped into his head—not exactly police procedure, but it worked for him.
But don’t call me a psychic.
He looked around the room, at the yellowed curtains, the peeling wallpaper, and wondered what the Star Hotel had been like years ago when it was new.
He daydreamed about who might have stayed here when this neighborhood hadn’t yet gone to the mongrels. Maybe it had been full of happy, well-heeled people. That was before the invasion, George thought, the invasion of unhappy, desperate people. Where did they come from?
The lightbulb flickered on—lonely psychotic people, the world was full of them.
Maybe he sat there and talked to her, for Christ sake. Maybe he just needed somebody to talk to. George visualized the killer sitting there in the chair and talking to the victim. It made bizarre sense. Dead people are good listeners, never interrupting or talking back.
What could you tell a dead whore?
Then another lightbulb lit in George’s mind. Maybe he took her picture.
That made even more sense. That would explain placing the body in the chair and posing it. It even explained the second strangulation with the rope—it was a photographic prop.
George stayed there for a few more minutes, just thinking and getting impressions. Panelli seemed bored and eager to get out of the haunted room. George stared at Panelli, and Panelli stared back.
“What are you lookin’ at?” Panelli said.
“I’m lookin’ at you.”
“How come?”
“’Cause you’re there.”
“Christ, man. You’re givin’ me the creeps. This whole place gives me the creeps.”
“Panelli, you could be a good investigator someday, but first you got to learn to put yourself inside the killer’s head. Yeah, this place gives me the creeps, too, but this is where the answers are. You want to get the creeps. The killer might’ve had the creeps, too.”
Panelli said nothing.
“I think he took her picture,” George said.
“What for?”
George shrugged. “To sell, maybe.”
“Jesus, Jones, you’re a hard man to figure.”
George rose and went for the door. Panelli followed. As they came down the stairs, George heard Patsy Cline singing “Walkin’ After Midnight.”
He walked to the desk and saw that the clerk had a small cassette tape player behind the counter. George noticed a pile of cassettes that hadn’t been there earlier. He saw the titles and smiled broadly. The Roots of Country, The Best of Ernest Tubb, and, best of all, Hank Williams Sr.’s Greatest Hits. The clerk was a country music fan. Not just a country music fan, a fan of old-time, classic country music, the kind of music that George loved.
“Patsy Cline. One of my favorites,” George said coolly.
The man looked up, one eyebrow raised. “Yeah?”
“Yep. I love Pasty Cline; she’s my favorite singer. The world lost one of the greats when her plane went down,” George continued.
“What do you know about it?”
“I told you; I love her voice. If women could sing like that nowadays, I’d get a boner every time I listened to the radio.”
The old man smiled, showing his crooked teeth. It was the first sign of friendliness George had seen out of the grizzled old bastard. “You got that right.”
“I take it you’re a country music fan.”
The old man shifted in his seat; the wall between him and George started coming down, brick by brick.
“You ever been to Nashville?”
George pulled up a chair.
They talked about country music greats and both men agreed that Hank Williams Sr. was the all-time best. Panelli got bored, wandered outside, and smoked a cigarette. George spent a pleasant fifteen minutes exchanging stories with the desk clerk and emerged from the hotel with a reasonable description of every stranger the old man had noticed coming or going the night of Dolly’s murder.
“He saw a couple of guys leave around eleven, which would have been right after the murder. He didn’t notice much, except one tall guy had red hair.”
“How did you do it?” Panelli wanted to know. “I talked to him for hours and he didn’t know a thing.”
“Easy. I just went over the words to ‘I’m So Lonesome I Could Cry’ with him and told him it was my life story. You’d be surprised how many people fall into that category.”
Something about Dolly’s room stimulated George’s imagination. It was just a gut feeling, but George had learned to trust his gut feelings. He went back to the office and immersed himself in thought. His mind drifted from the Loomis case to the Devane case.
Back and forth he kicked around theories, ideas, and possibilities. He looked at the descriptions of the victims and it occurred to him that they all had two physical characteristics in common: fair skin and reddish hair. Why hadn’t anyone noticed that?
“I wonder if they were all Irish?” George asked out loud. “Wouldn’t that be a strange coincidence?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
O’Connor had extensive contacts among terrorists. Outlaws found each other. Whether it was on the international arms market or through the chemical peddlers and bomb experts, political fugitives came together.
In his time, Padraic had dealt with everybody from the Marxists to the Muslims. They all needed guns and money, regardless of their cause, and they were all out there on the edge, trying to score.
On several occasions, radical politics mixed, creating strange bedfellows. O’Connor had met Col. Mohammed Mohammed at a conference of international terrorists at the Badawi refugee camp in Lebanon.
They found they had several things in common, one of them being that they bath had operations in New York City. The Libyans had tried, unsuccessfully, to mount a terrorist campaign in the United States several times. Now, with the Black Rain’s help, the Libyan connection in New York had become a reality. The net result was an exchange of money, weapons, explosives, and technologies that helped both groups.
At a dimly lit Middle Eastern café on the edge of Elmhurst, Mohammed Mohammed waited for O’Connor’s arrival. They hadn’t seen each other in years. Both had been busy m
aking life hell for the British and Americans.
O’Connor and Mohammed both used code names when they contacted each other, to protect the security of both sides. Mohammed was “the Viper,” and O’Connor was “the Hare.”
The Hare walked in and took a seat at the same table with the Viper. The Viper poured him some tea and the two men drank in silence for a few minutes, waiting to see if they had been followed. A man sitting nearby got up and went outside to check the street. He returned a minute later and nodded.
When the coast appeared clear, the Viper spoke. “It is good to see you, my friend. How goes the struggle against the evil empire?”
O’Connor, speaking as quietly as possible, answered, “It goes well, and you?”
“We live to fight another day,” the Viper said. He took another sip of tea, his eyes sweeping the room, checking the door. “I must admit, however, I was surprised to get your message. Tell me, what can I do for you today?”
O’Connor, as cautious as Mohammed, pulled his chair closer, so that the two men were practically nose to nose. “I need something,” he said.
The Viper nodded knowingly. “Tell me what it is and I will tell you if I can get it.”
O’Connor looked around again. His voice dropped even lower. “It is something unusual, and I was told that you had some experience dealing in this type of thing.”
“I have experience dealing in many things. What is your particular need?”
O’Connor swallowed; even for a Libyan terrorist, this would be a strange request. The atmosphere in the café seemed to become darker by several shades.
“Human skin,” he whispered.
The Viper’s left eyebrow raised. He looked questioningly at O’Connor. The silence washed across their faces. O’Connor said no more.
Mohammed said, “I see, and what kind of skin does the Hare require for his purposes?”
“The skin of our enemies, of course.”
Mohammed Mohammed rocked in his chair. He took another sip of tea and contemplated his reply. “Nice, pale, English skin? Pink and soft?”
The Hare nodded.
“That is surely a strange request, my friend, very strange.”
O’Connor kept still. His face was as cold and unemotional as a statue. Even though he was in the heart of New York City, O’Connor felt thousands of miles away. The café was quiet; some dishes clinked in the back room. Water ran.
The Viper stared at him, making him feel slightly uncomfortable. Mohammed studied the Irishman, trying to fathom what this request meant. It must have some symbolic meaning, he surmised. Terrorists often sent messages to their rivals that way.
The Viper looked away, his face dispassionate, flat and unconcerned. “How many hides?” he asked casually.
“Two.”
“With what will you pay?”
“American money.”
“We have American money.”
“Plastic explosives, then.”
The Libyan nodded. It was a strange trade, but he would do it. He liked the new plastics. In the next few minutes they agreed on a price and a delivery date.
O’Connor left as soon as it was decided. The Viper immediately began considering whose skin it would be. He left the café ten minutes later by the back door.
O’Connor placed a call to Scrupski’s Metalworks. “This is Mr. O’Malley. Is my piece finished yet?”
“O’Malley? Yeah, it’s ready for pickup; came out real nice, too.”
O’Connor asked what its weight was.
“It weighs sixty pounds; would you like to make shipping arrangements?”
“No, I’ll be over to collect it in person.”
From Elmhurst O’Connor drove back into Manhattan and visited a store that sold electronic surveillance equipment. He bought an array of high-tech items, all designed for spying. The gear was the best available and very expensive. An expert in the field, O’Connor knew brand names and specifications.
Satisfied with his purchases, he stopped at a phone booth and used directory assistance for the telephone number of Dr. Jukes Wahler.
Padraic O’Connor made his appointment with Jukes under the name Charlie O’Malley.
Jukes recognized him as soon as he came in. “You’re Loomis’s cousin, aren’t you?”
“That’s right, Dr. Wahler. I’d like to talk with you.”
Jukes smiled, even though something about O’Malley made him uncomfortable.
O’Malley’s size and firm handshake were intimidating. The singsong lilt of his Irish brogue made little melodies of the sentences, seducing Jukes’s attention.
“That’s what I’m here for,” Jukes said. “Please, come in and sit down. I’m sorry about your cousin. Are you looking for some grief counseling?”
O’Connor shook his head. “No, it’s a personal matter.”
“No problem, Mr. O’Malley. My door is always open.”
O’Connor sat. “Let me get right to the point. I think I can help you find your sister. But I need you to help me first.”
Jukes’s jaw dropped. “Cathy? How did you know about that?”
O’Connor’s face was impassive. “I know a lot of things about you, Dr. Wahler.”
“I don’t like the sound of that.”
“Well, it’s all a matter of public record. That, and a bit of investigative work of my own.”
Jukes stood up. “What do you know about Cathy?”
O’Connor put up his hands. “Sit down, man. I didn’t say I knew anything; I just said I wanted to help. These are troubled times, Dr. Wahler. A man has got to accept help where he can find it; now don’t you agree?”
“Are you a private investigator?”
O’Connor pressed his hands together, as if praying. “In a way, yes. However I’m not licensed, and I don’t really want any compensation for my work. Call it an exchange of professional services.”
“Then what’s in it for you?”
“I’m looking for the Banshee.”
Jukes stared at him. “The Banshee? The Banshee doesn’t exist.”
O’Connor/O’Malley laughed. “I’m afraid that’s not entirely correct, you see. It’s true she doesn’t exist in the conventional sense, on our level of consciousness, but I can assure you, she does exist, and she’s here in New York City.”
Jukes tried to mask his surprise. “But … But that’s absurd. You can’t expect me to believe that.”
“You shouldn’t disbelieve something just because you don’t understand it, Dr. Wahler; that’s a very unscientific way to think. I know more about the Banshee than you might expect.”
Jukes said, “But what good would I do? What makes you think I have any connection?”
O’Connor straightened, and his voice took on a magisterial tone, colored by his engaging accent. Jukes was compelled to listen.
“The Banshee travels along the lines of destiny. Your destiny has already crossed it. You now have to play out the scenario.”
“You’re talking gibberish.”
O’Connor smiled. “Then pretend that I’m crazy and try to cure me like you did poor Declan. I don’t care. Don’t you see? The lines of fate have already been cast and there’s nothing any of us can do about it.”
O’Connor paused, letting his words linger.
“You’re acting just like I expected you would, Dr. Wahler. You’re approaching this thing as if it had a logical explanation. I respect that. I’d have been disappointed if you didn’t. But there is no logical explanation. You can’t rely on science, because I’m talking about something science can’t explain.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, O’Malley, get to the point!”
O’Malley nodded. “I think my cousin came to you raving about the Banshee. You probably treated him much the same as you’re treating me right now. But the Banshee got poor Declan before you could figure out what was happening.
“At that point, though you were unaware of it, you crossed her path. Because of Declan Loomis, you see. And he to
ld you about her; he spoke her name many times. She’s aware of these things, Dr. Wahler. Declan passed it along to you like a virus. Chances are you saw her even before you met Declan. Sometimes she knows in advance what poor bastard to haunt.”
Jukes’s face went pale. His mind flashed back to the girl through the delicatessen window, hours before he met Loomis.
Yes, it was she.
O’Malley rocked forward in his seat. “Am I right?”
Jukes answered the question with a blank stare.
O’Malley said, “The tendrils of fate that link us together are slender and subtle sometimes, but their connection is as strong as iron.
“You see, the Banshee is always among us, attached to some human being or other. She keeps moving, going from haunting to haunting until she finds someone she wants to destroy.
“Then, depending on the diabolical whim of that murderin’ bitch, she’ll either reveal herself to you and move on to someone else in the circle, or she’ll kill you.”
Jukes needed a drink of water. His throat felt dry and hopeless as he tried to say something to counteract the terrible gravity of those words. All he managed to say was, “Ah, ah, ah …”
O’Connor walked over to the watercooler and filled a paper cup. He handed it to Jukes. “Have a nice, cool drink of water, Dr. Wahler. I have a proposition for you.”
Jukes accepted the cup and drank, never taking his eyes off O’Connor.
Jukes cleared his throat. “You realize all this is just a lot of delusional rhetoric, don’t you? It’s the kind of story a child would dream up.”
O’Connor chuckled. “Of course. That’s only logical. From your perspective, what else could it be?” He looked around the room, appraising Jukes’s office and nodding approvingly. “Not bad; nice place. You make good money from explaining the likes of me away, don’t you? Armed with your bloody logic, you go out there and fight the good fight, until the end. That’s the kind of guy you are Dr. Wahler. A real company man.”
“There’s no need to insult me.”
O’Malley raised a hand. “Sorry. What I mean to say is I would expect you to take the logical course and be a disbeliever until you see proof with your own eyes. That reasonable enough?”